by Lynn Kurland
“On my horse,” Ali finished.
“Aye, on your horse,” Jason agreed. “I tried to stop her, of course.”
“Did she nick you?” Colin asked, peering closely at Jason’s shoulder.
“She didn’t mark me, but the struggle wrought a foul work on my healing wound. She fled before I could catch her and although several men from the village searched, none could find her.”
“But she left Solonge with Sir Etienne and several garrison knights,” Ali said. “Did you not see them?”
“She was traveling on her own from what I saw. The villagers said a goodly contingent of men rode through the fields later, and a very irritated-looking group of lads they were, so perhaps Marie was trying to leave them behind and seek safety for herself.” He smiled. “I daresay she won’t be happy should she encounter them again, having thusly given them the slip.”
“I would put nothing past her,” Lord Denis said.
Ali remembered only then that her father and two brothers were there as well. Her sire certainly seemed at peace, more so than he had in years. Perhaps ridding himself of Marie had done him some good. Would that he’d never wed her in the first place.
Then again, if he hadn’t, she wouldn’t be wed with Colin and she couldn’t help but feel that that was worth the price.
The afternoon passed slowly, first with the chamber full of plots, strategy, and plans for reaching England alive, and then with condolences for the good sisters and their loss. Ali listened until she simply couldn’t listen anymore. She leaned back in her chair and looked at Colin as he talked with her family and Jason.
And then, despite what swirled around her, she found herself thinking on how she and Colin had passed the previous morning in her father’s chamber, taking care of, well, things that needed to be taken care of.
Her nose was healing nicely, truth be told.
As if her very thoughts had been divined she found her hand suddenly taken by her husband’s. He rose, pulling her up after him.
“Aliénore’s tired,” he stated. “Where can we retire?”
Jason laughed.
“I’ll see to you later,” Colin promised him.
Jason only raised his cup and drained it in salute.
A nun came forward. “We have a chamber for the abbot,” she offered. “You could stay there for the night, if you like.”
Ali started to follow him from the guest hall when the voices behind her reached her ears.
“He bloodied her nose,” Pierre whispered from behind them.
“Ah, but what did she do to him that you can’t see?” Jason said with a laugh.
Pierre made noises of awe.
“I am,” Colin muttered under his breath, “going to kill them both before this journey is over.”
Ali kept her head down and smiled. That was perhaps the trouble with traveling with family. They felt compelled to mark and interpret every action.
The nun led them to a small chamber, then inclined her head. “For your comfort, my lord, my lady.”
Colin didn’t exactly shove the woman from the chamber, but he came close. Ali smiled and received a scowl in return.
“I thought you might be weary,” he said.
“I daresay napping isn’t why you brought me here,” she said dryly.
“I thought I might seek to reassure you that I am fully capable of protecting you,” he offered.
“That, my lord, is coming perilously close to a falsehood.”
“Then, damn you, I am heartily sick of death and subterfuge and I thought a pleasant hour or two enjoying the fruits of my labors of finally managing to drag you to the altar might serve us both well.”
“Now that I believe.”
He said no more, but merely took her in his arms and, without further comment, proceeded to kiss her until she couldn’t breathe. In truth. She finally managed to tear her mouth away from his and suck in much-needed air. He fair dropped her back to her feet.
“What?” he asked, checking her over frantically. “Did I break something?”
“Your mail,” she wheezed. “My mail. It’s crushing the life from me. And my nose is plugged.”
“Nothing I can do about the last,” he said, making quick work of removing both his mail and hers.
“You would make a fine squire,” she remarked.
“I was a fine squire, but I’m a far better knight.”
“So I’ve noticed. Now, where were we?”
“About my next objective.”
“And that would be?”
He looked at her, hesitated, and then gestured for her to sit. She did, then watched as he paced in front of her for several moments in silence. Then he stopped and looked at her quite seriously.
“I have decided,” he began, “that there is something yet in life that I have not mastered. I vow I will not rest until I do.”
“Something you haven’t mastered?” she echoed. “Is that possible? Colin of Berkhamshire, master of swordplay, terrifier of armies, man who brings souls to their very knees by the mention of his name alone? What else could there possibly be?”
“Something far more important.”
She could scarce wait to hear what.
“I have decided,” he announced, “that I will become as fine a lover as I am a swordsman.”
The saints preserve her. She’d seen his dedication in the lists. She wondered, just as seriously, if she might ever see the outside of her bedchamber again.
“Well,” she managed weakly.
He looked at her with a frown taking root between his eyebrows. “Why do you say that? Is that not a worthy goal?”
“Of course it is.”
“Do you fear you lack the stamina for it?”
She wanted to sit up and put her shoulders back, but the very thought of the days and nights he would most likely want to devote to his new preoccupation was enough to keep her slumping in her chair.
“Or perhaps ’Tis the thought of aiding me in this quest that doesn’t sit well with you,” he said grimly.
“You, my lord,” she said, “think too much.”
He knelt down in front of her suddenly and reached for her hands. She looked at his large paws surrounding hers, those scarred hands that had brought perhaps more justice, though likely more terror and death, than the normal pair of hands, and couldn’t help a bit of marveling that they cradled hers so gently.
“Actually, I could sit no longer below,” he said quietly. “I could listen no more to tales of death and destruction.”
“Losing your strong stomach?” she asked gently.
“Nay, my lady. I found myself quite suddenly longing for no company but yours, even did we but sit together and speak of nothing important.” He paused and an expression of deep concern descended upon his features.
“Colin?” she asked. “What ails you?”
“Think you such longings bode ill for my ruthlessness?” he asked.
She squeezed his hand. “I’ll carry the secret of it to my grave.”
He looked upon her with approval. “I always suspected you were a prudent wench.”
“Did you now,” she said, hoping that was a compliment.
“Indeed, I did,” he said, beginning to warm to his topic. “If you must know, when I knew you were a girl but knew not your name, I found myself often wishing that Aliénore of Solonge had found herself a happy home in a convent.”
She blinked. “Why?”
“Because I found you to be such a fine, sporting gel with a courageous heart. I found myself cursing the day that might come and saddle me with a betrothed who hadn’t the spine to face me as you did.”
“And when you learned who I was?”
“Well,” he said, lifting her hand and kissing it in the less-than-polished way she was fast becoming accustomed to, “well, then I counted myself doubly blessed. My obligation was fulfilled to the appropriate woman, but I got the wench I wanted in the bargain as well.”
That, for some reason
she surely couldn’t divine, was possibly the most perfect thing a man had ever said. And that it should come from the terrifying man kneeling before her looking infinitely satisfied with his life only made the words sweeter to her ears.
“I can only hope,” he said slowly, “that you have no regrets. And if you do, I hope they can be overcome in time.”
She leaned forward and smiled at him. “Will you know the truth?”
He looked to be steeling himself for something truly awful. “If you must,” he said.
“It occurred to me, at some point in our journeys, that if I had but known you instead of your reputation, I wouldn’t have fled.”
He looked at her with his mouth open for a moment or two, then began to blink rapidly.
“Damned smoky fire,” he said, waving away nonexistent clouds. “Bad wood, obviously. I’ll have to have a word with these nuns before we leave.”
Ali smiled to herself and rose, pulling Colin to his feet with her. “’Tis horrible,” she agreed. “Now, about that new ambition of yours ...”
“Aye?”
“I wonder how comfortable that bed is over there.”
He put his shoulders back and assumed a long-suffering expression. “’Tis but an obstacle to be overcome by only the most courageous. I’m up to the task. You?”
“Anything for the noble cause of chivalry.”
“I knew I was saddling myself with the right wench.”
She wanted to point out that most men did not refer to their wives as “wenches,” but he’d already bent his mind and energies to his task, and she found that worrying about such trivialities was simply beyond her.
As fine a lover as he was a swordsman?
The saints preserve her, she might never escape the chamber.
Chapter 39
Ase’nnight later, Colin dismounted in Harrowden’s courtyard, stood gratefully on ground that didn’t buck and heave beneath him, and took the time to briefly contemplate several of life’s more puzzling riddles.
Firstly, why was it he had spent the better part of his life on horseback, which was certainly not a ride without its own share of bucking and heaving, yet such a life had not prepared him in the slightest for the flailings and whirlings of a ship being tossed about the sea?
Secondly, how was it that Jason of Artane, still green from his wound and pale from his fever, could ride out such waves with nary a flicker of unease crossing his face and then cheerfully step off the boat with the contents of his stomach still intact?
And, lastly, how was it you could be intimate with a woman, powerfully and fully intimate with a woman, yet have that woman refuse to puke in front of you? Especially given how many times she’d done it previously on her last sea crossing in the guise of a man!
Needless to say, he had refused to leave Aliénore to her puking self, taken her cursings like the man he was, and held her head when she’d finally fallen into an exhausted slumber.
He supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised when she’d woken and found that she’d been carried onto the dock senseless, yet still thanked him kindly and given him her most pleasant smile.
He’d decided then not to try to pursue the hidden meaning in anything she’d done while aboard ship. Those disturbing feminine slips aside, she had many fine, manly qualities such as courage, good cheer, and ample wit, qualities that made sense to him, and ones he would certainly choose to concentrate on instead.
Now he had reached the last pause before he arrived at his final destination of Berkham. He was pleased to be where he was, and not only because it meant he would never again have to set foot on board a ship. He had the happy occasion of his father’s discomfiture to look forward to when Reginald saw Aliénore alive and well.
And apparently pleased to have wed with Reginald’s son.
He took a final look about the courtyard to assure himself that no foes had followed him inside the gates, then gathered up his bride, nodded for her family and Jason to follow, and swept into the guest hall with as much bluster as his father might have managed on his best day.
Only to find his brother kissing Sybil of Maignelay-sur-mer as if robbing her of breath was the only thing that assured him of his own.
Colin came to a teetering halt and gaped at his sibling, then gaped at Sybil as well. She was wearing neither wimple nor veil. Perhaps having Peter to kiss had occupied her mouth so fully that she no longer needed to stock her larder, as it were.
The door at the other end of the hall banged shut suddenly. Peter and Sybil sprang apart as if they’d been spotted by the abbot himself.
“By the saints, at it again?”
Colin looked at his father and noted the expression of complete disgust. Apparently Peter and Sybil were not engaging in a newly discovered pastime.
“But Father,” Peter protested, “we are betrothed. What else are we to do?”
“Wait for your damned bro ... um ...”
Colin watched as his father realized that he, Peter, and Sybil were not the only ones in the hall, then realized just who else was there. Colin had the complete satisfaction of watching his sire blanch.
Of course, that whitening of his visage didn’t last long.
“Back so soon?” he asked contemptuously. “And empty-handed. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.”
Colin folded his arms over his chest. “I found what I sought.”
Reginald looked the company over. “I see men, so I assume you didn’t bring the silly twit back with you. Is she dead?”
“Hardly,” Colin answered.
“In a convent, then.”
“Hardly,” Aliénore muttered from where she stood next to him.
Colin was tempted to smile, but refrained. He would enjoy that bit of humor with Aliénore later when they had some privacy. For now, he was better off scowling at his sire. “The lady is alive, hale, and hearty.”
Reginald nodded in satisfaction. “You couldn’t persuade her to come back with you, then. I had no doubt of it. Obviously, I made the right decision in choosing Peter—”
“To aid you in packing your gear at Berkham,” Colin finished for him, “for ’Tis a certainty I don’t want you there any longer.”
“You have no say in the matter,” his father snarled, “for you have no bride.”
Colin took Aliénore by the hand and led her forward. “May I present,” he said calmly, “the lady Aliénore of Solonge. Or Aliénore of Berkham, as she now should be known. My lady wife.”
Reginald gaped at her for a moment or two, his mouth working futilely. He seemed to be having trouble taking in air.
“Impossible,” he wheezed. “This lad couldn’t possibly be a woman.”
“I fear she most certainly is,” came another voice.
Colin looked to his right and saw that Lord Denis had stepped forward. He smiled without any warmth whatsoever.
“And this is my daughter you’re near to insulting,” he said. “I can vouch for her identity.”
“As can I,” Jason said.
Aliénore’s brothers offered the same service.
Reginald looked as if his heart might be failing him right before their very eyes. He clutched at his throat and made strangling noises. Aliénore started forward, but Colin caught her by the hand.
“Ignore him,” Colin said shortly. “’Tis for show.”
“But Colin,” she said, aghast, “he looks unwell.”
Colin pulled her along, then nodded to his sire on the way to the table set near the back of the hall. “He’ll survive. See, already he turns red instead of that unattractive purple he was but a moment before. His ire will keep him from his grave long past the time when I would have rather seen him there, I assure you.”
Reginald was starting to splutter, which Colin took as a sign his father was in truth not ready to be laid out and admired.
Damn him anyway.
Colin led Aliénore to the table, sat down with her, saw her family seated, and then waited for sustenance to be br
ought to him. What came instead was his brother crawling toward him, looking desolate.
“Does this mean,” he asked, his voice quavering in a most unmanly fashion, “that my betrothal to Sybil is invalid?”
Colin studied his brother. “You want the wench?”
“Desperately.” And Peter did look desperate as he clutched the edge of the table and leaned precariously over it toward Colin.
“I’m for it, then,” Colin said. “Save me the expense of keeping you here, I suppose.”
“My gold is not yours yet,” Reginald croaked. “Not until I’m dead!”
“I can see to that for you, if you like,” Colin snapped.
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“You would be surprised,” Colin returned. He girded up his loins to launch into a full-out attack on his father, but found that he was quite suddenly distracted by the arrival of his sisters. Ermengarde came marching first into the chamber, gathered their father up, and saw him settled with food before him. Colin watched with not just a little irritation as she fussed over the old fool.
“We haven’t eaten either,” Colin said pointedly.
“Go fetch it yourself,” Ermengarde said, sweeping the company with a glare. “The kitchens are ... are ... are ...”
Colin watched as his sister found herself rendered quite unable to finish her thought. He followed her eyes and realized she had perhaps studied his troops a moment too long. She was standing in front of the table, gaping at one of Aliénore’s brothers.
François, to be exact.
And François was gaping at her in return.
Ermengarde shut her mouth with a snap. And then—and Colin knew at that moment that the world could not last but a handful of moments more if these momentous events were any indication—she reached up and tidied her hair.
Tidied her hair?
Colin could scarce believe his eyes.
“You’ll need ... food,” she said breathlessly.
“You’ll need aid fetching it,” François said, standing up so quickly that his chair fell backward with a crash.